Okay-- added photos. (See comments by Tad, Lisa, Pete... I consider "three" to equal "popular demand.")
She washed my hair after a shoulder massage and scalp massage, all of which felt good. She offered me a cup of delicious tea and she combed and cut my hair just like anyone else would. I bristled with the thought of the same basic blunt cut I always end up getting, on a different day at a higher price.
“I researched a stylist known for cutting curly hair—she cuts Juliana Margolis, for instance, and Julia Roberts. She’s in New York, and I thought about driving to find her, but I wanted to find someone local if I can.”
“What does the stylist do that is special?” Amanda asked. Her own hair is white and ironed straight, eyes lined with kohl, pretty and startling.
“It’s called slicing and carving, and the website suggests this style of cut causes curls to behave less like stacking cups and more like nested measuring cups.”
“That’s a good image. It sounds like different words for exactly the cut I planned for you. I was just about to say, this is where the fun begins. Have I told you how much I love cutting curly hair?”
“You mean you’re not done?”
She laughed. “I’m just getting started. You have to see this really cool curling comb I just got.” So Amanda of the very straight white hair twirled my hair into twenty-five ringlets in about three minutes, each shoulder-length shining ringlet more charming than the last. Each ringlet stayed exactly where she put it.
“How does it do that? I need…”
“You’ve got to have one of these combs. It’s magic. The curl styling comb was a freebie from Aveda two months back, and I can’t get any more. It really works for you, though. Let me show you how you’d reach the back section, to do this yourself.”
She dried the ringlets and applied more fabulous-smelling hair goop to the long curled dreadlocks. “My job is to cut each individual curl to exactly the right length. That’s how curly hair needs to be cut.” She lifted one lock after another, eyeing each carefully. I relaxed into a second cup of tea, watching six inch slices of curl fall to the floor. Either it’s going to be great, I thought, or it’s too late now. “Love,” she sang, “Each curl needs a lot of love.”
Amanda and I are going to get along just fine.
“Can you shake your head back for me? Run your hands through your hair—let’s mess it up and see what happens.” But it felt like five pounds of heavy hair was missing, and ten ringlets along the bottom returned to their nesting cup homes. The dreads on top separated into arcing fireworks-shaped arrangements, begging to be tugged and to spring back. Unbelievable!
When I arrived at school to pick up my kids, rain poured down the gutters and over the eaves. As I closed my umbrella indoors, a friend insisted, “What did you do to your hair?”
“What do you think of it?” I asked.
“I can see every individual curl all around your head! It’s raining! Doesn’t your hair know it’s supposed to be a frizzy mess?”
“I just got the most expensive haircut of my life.”
“Looks like it was worth every penny. How many pounds of hair products keep those curls shining?”
“Twenty? Thirty pounds? I don’t care.”
“I hope you bought every bottle the stylist suggested!” Leigh laughed.
“No, that would cost more than the hair cut. But I bought two. And I’m in search of a very cool curl-styling comb on eBay.”
“Can you make it look like this, yourself?”
“It’s either that or I never wash it again.” She sproinged a curl or two.
The comb arrived in the mail yesterday from my eBay purchase, and my children called me Princess Curly Locks as I hurried to wind up ringlets after my morning shower. “That’s QUEEN Curly Locks to you, minions!” I chided, glancing at my watch. Three minutes, exactly. It’s more than the zero minutes I usually spend on my hair, but three minutes is not a huge investment. I grabbed my keys and my coffee to head out the door, dripping. I let the dreads air dry on the drive to school, where other children stopped to ooh and aah and sproing my shiny long curls.
Another half dozen moms stop me as I jump back into my car, each needing to tug a curl just to see it bounce. “Did your hair just start doing this?” Kristine asks.
“New cut, and I took a good three minutes to style it.”
“Yeesh, what would happen if I took three minutes to style my hair?”
By nine a.m., Queen Curly Locks looked exactly as I did when I left Amanda the White at the lovely salon, as she was sweeping many pounds of shining curls from the floor and admiring the pile of fireworks curls piled expertly atop of my head. I’m turning forty-five next week, and I have new hair, the hair of Queen Curly Locks, without even driving to New York City. Wonders never cease.
Addendum: There. Enough begging. Added the best I can do, aiming the digital camera down my arm (a very strange activity that makes me feel like an egomaniac. Funny, writing about myself does not make me feel like an egomaniac, but self-photography seems gratuitous. Why is that?). This photo doesn't show you the overall shape very well, my apologies-- can you see the rock star curls, though? That's after two nights sleeping on those spirals. No frizz and no re-doing the whole thing! I love my hair, but it's good to have it behave in a less-beastly fashion.
And I'm thinking I need to take all photos down my arm-- the stack of multiple chins completely disappears from this angle.
Princess Curly Locks will have her photographers snap a picture of the ridiculous sausage-curls drying, soon. I look like that snotty blonde Nellie on Little House on the Prairie. Which reminds me, must get ready for 3rd grade reading group this morning...